Mickey Spillane - [Mike Hammer 13] (22 page)

Velda asked, “How long do we have before they latch on to us?”

“When they dust that room, my prints will be there,” I said. “I left some identifiable tire tracks in the soft ground, that’s for sure, so that will put me right on top of things. There’s no telling what those slobs that I ran down will say. Maybe they’ll talk, maybe not.”

“Times are tough, huh?” I looked at her. She didn’t even sound worried.

“One thing is, I didn’t ice Ponti or Patterson. Whoever was in that car that roared up while I was on the way out is the logical suspect.”

“Have you got any good guesses?”

I went over and turned the channels on TV. Nothing like this had hit the area since prohibition so every station was carrying a report of the situation. A couple were even playing a local angle of having the residents keep a lookout for new faces in the area and calling in any odd occurrences they may have noticed.

“This isn’t local,” I said disgustedly. “They’re dealing with a damned rich organization that can buy anything it wants.”

“Except it’s not so big right now, is it, Mike?”

“Right,” I agreed. “It’s money that makes this old world go around, so we’re back to the eighty-nine billion bucks again. You know . . . there are a lot of countries that could run a credible war with that kind of funding.”

“And that leaves us with a problem, doesn’t it?”

“Like what?”

“Like where do we go from here?”

The TV was too loud, so I turned it off. I wiped my hand across my face, but everything stayed blurred.

“Want a new thought?” Velda asked me.

“Damn right.”

“Let’s get married. At least then I could never testify against you.”

“I didn’t do anything to testify against, doll.”

“We stayed together in a motel room.”

“Nothing happened.”

“A jury would never believe that,” she said.

“Doesn’t matter,” I told her. “We didn’t cross any state lines.”

I got that pensive look again, so I mussed up her hair, my fingers running through the long silkiness of it. I could almost close my eyes and feel the color of it. I let my fingertips run down her neck, massaging her gently, and she turned her head with her eyes closed and if she had been a cat she would have purred. Then I felt the color of her hair again and you can’t feel color. You have to see it. But I felt it.

I said, “Come on, let’s not waste time.”

Morning traffic was light and we took our place in the stream of workers heading for the New York Thruway. Once we turned onto it we were buried amidst the semitrailers and general commuters heading south.

At the Albany off-ramp I swung right, aiming for a mid-city building I had been to before. Parking was still available and I grabbed a spot and shut the engine off. Velda hadn’t said a word for the past half hour, letting her eyes scan the sides of the roads for police cars. Now she looked at the building I had parked near and got out when I did, a strange expression tightening her face.

Without saying a word, I hooked my hand under her arm and led her toward those big, official-looking doors where well-dressed, determined-looking people were going in. Just as we reached them two uniformed cops came out, barely glanced at us and kept on going. Anybody going into the courthouse didn’t seem suspicious.

Except for Velda. She didn’t know what was going on until we reached the proper door where marriage licenses were issued, then her hand squeezed my arm so tightly I was glad she didn’t have it on my neck. We were the only ones in the room where we got our instructions on the blood testing and the address of the nearest facility to do the job, took the booklet on the counter that discussed the solemnity and requirements of a good marriage, thanked the clerk and told her we’d be back.

As far as Velda was concerned, the deed was almost as good as done. We would probably have to wait a few days for the blood tests to be completed, but somehow she was going to make sure that situation was expedited to its utmost. An hour later we had gone through the ritual, then she spent fifteen minutes talking to someone in the doctor’s office. When she came out she was all smiles, a satisfied look spread across that beautiful face like a kid who had just pulled off a successful raid on the cookie jar.

“It will be ready at four-thirty,” she announced. You’d think she had just won the Super Bowl single-handed. “The license bureau closes at five. Now can we eat lunch?”

Time wasn’t measured by a watch anymore. The gentle burning of the hole in my side told me that I had slipped up on the medication schedule again. I took my pills with my Danish pastry while Velda dug into a big plate of bacon and eggs. Several times she glanced at me nervously, knowing what was happening, and once asked if I were all right.

“Just the usual,” I explained. “Ralph Morgan tried to tell me, but I keep forgetting. It just isn’t easy to stay relaxed. Not in this business, anyway. But I’m not dying, so stay cool, kitten.”

When we finished the waitress poured us another cup of coffee and we sat back sort of grinning at each other, wondering what being married was going to be like. Hell, we were together most of the time, in wild situations where your life depended on your partner, what else could be new when you were married?

She broke off our eye contact and rummaged in her handbag, bringing out a white envelope. “I forgot to show you these. There was a one-hour developing place near the motel and I had them done.”

What she gave me were photos of Slipped Disk Harris’ cave area, and although the focus was fine and the scene well lit, the subject matter was arranged in a pretty amateur way. I flipped through them, noting again how that great area could well have housed many thousands of bottles of booze. In the floor markings were the outlines of pallets, and the grooves made by the wheels of the trucks that had delivered the booze to the customers in the big cities.

I was studying the one where the ceiling had come down when she said, “No sign of bats?”

“No bats,” I reiterated. I took another sip of coffee and knew I was frowning.

“What are you thinking, Mike?”

“You got a card from McClain and Leeds Surveying, didn’t you?”

“Uh-huh.” She went into her handbag again and came out with the card.

I checked the address and handed it back. “Come on, kitten. We have things to do.”

She was going to make a good wife, all right. There were no questions. I paid the bill and we got in the car. Thirty minutes later I pulled up in front of the survey building, parked and went inside. Johnny Leeds said hello with a big handshake and another one of those glances toward Velda that I’d have to get used to seeing.

“Well, did you see the Harris place?” he asked.

I grinned at him and nodded. “Yeah, and it’s a great spot.”

“You must be kidding!”

“No way, Johnny.”

“But I told you it was a depressed area.” He watched me a moment, then he got it. “You really are talking about raising a family, aren’t you?”

“Let’s start off by saying a vacation spot might be more in line. Those old buildings can be demolished pretty easily and you sure can’t beat the scenic value of that spot. If the worst comes to the worst, I can raise mushrooms in that cave up there.”

“Sure you can,” he replied jokingly. “What’s your problem with the place?”

“No problem. I need information. There’s a caretaker there of sorts and I’d like to find out how long he’s been there and who was there before him. I want to locate the owner and see if the place is on the market. Can you handle that?”

“Easy. If you want to buy, do you want me to recommend an agency?”

“You bet. Just make sure you get a cut of the sale.”

“You bet,” he replied with a wink. “Incidentally, did you hear about the killings up at the Ponti estate? That’s not too far from the Harris place.”

“Heard it on the morning news. Don’t suppose they’ll be missed, though. They know who did it?”

“If they do they’re not saying yet. A dragnet is out for somebody.”

“Well, at least we know old Harris is well tucked into bed,” I said. “When do you want me to check back with you?”

“Late this afternoon. That be all right?”

“Just fine. See you then. If I get tied up, I’ll call.”

“One more thing. These real estate agents will want to know about financing and—”

“It’ll be cash on the barrelhead, Johnny. No banks, no mortgages.”

“Way to go,” he said, and waved me into the car.

As we pulled away from the curb, Velda mused, “No banks, no mortgages . . .”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“You’re talking like a damn millionaire about to buy the place.”

“It’s a great idea.”

“Where would you get the money?”

“Oh, I’ll dig it up.”

“Like they’ll dig up Hoffa’s body?”

“Something like that.”

There was a pregnant pause, and she said, “Do I have anything to say about this?”

“No.”

“When we’re married . . .”

“You’re not married yet, kitten.”

Her voice sounded tiny and defeated, just a little, “Oh.”

So I reassured her. “I’m not saying it’s a bad idea, doll. I just said we’re not married
yet
.”

The satisfied grin she gave me made me feel a lot better.

I turned on the radio and punched the buttons for the local Albany station. The big news was still the Ponti murder. What they hadn’t figured out yet was the damage done by an unidentified car that had banged around a bunch of bad guys. Nobody was talking yet and there was no broken glass or shards of evidence to identify the make or model of the car. The paint samples indicated that the car was black. Later, laboratory analysis would point out the maker and, most likely, the model and year of my vehicle. Which didn’t bother me. Ford had manufactured a million of them.

Twenty minutes later I spotted the thruway up ahead, pulled into the left lane and turned onto the on-ramp heading north. Velda’s head jerked around, surprised. “Where are we going, Mike?”

“Back to Harris’ place.”

“Mike . . . that place will be filled with cops!”

“Why? Nobody was killed there. We didn’t leave any tracks leading to his place.”

“They can have roadblocks up around there.”

“Not on the thruway, kitten, and if they had any at all, they’re probably down by now. Roadblocks only last for so long. If they haven’t caught the killer by now, it won’t happen in a roadblock.”

I gassed up right off the thruway, and when Velda went to the ladies’ room I reached down under the seat and brought out my .45, still wrapped in its leather shoulder holster. I slipped off my jacket, climbed into the speed rig, tying it in place and fastening it to my belt. I jacked a shell into the chamber, thumbed the hammer back to half cock and slipped the safety on. When my jacket was back on I felt normal again. I had been too long without that weapon. For too many years it had been a close companion and saying hello to it again was like shaking hands with an old friend.

After five minutes Velda came back. She was looking away from the office section, not wanting anybody to be able to describe her. I had done the same thing, but a little bit differently, when I paid the bill.

The county road I was looking for wasn’t far away and I picked it up, drove to the familiar spot where it led to Slipped Disk Harris’ old quarters, and slowed down right after I made the turn.

Velda said, “What’s the matter?”

“Remember Slateman telling us he spotted the car a mile away?”

“So?”

“Harris probably cut a see-through opening in the trees for that purpose.”

“What difference does that make? Harris is long dead.”

“I don’t like gimmicks, kitten.”

“Are we going to walk?”

“No . . . but you keep looking off to your right and if you start to see any of the buildings up there, tell me. I’ll keep the other side covered.”

We hadn’t gone an eighth of a mile when she held out her hand and said, “Stop!” I hit the brakes quickly then, keeping the engine running, got out of the car and walked around the front of it. Velda had spotted it just in time. Running straight as an arrow up the side of the mountain was a path through the tree line. The brush was grown up head high, but the line of sight was perfect. Anybody up there could spot movement down on the road below. A car driving past would never notice that strip of emptiness and a beautiful ambush would be waiting for him above. Unless they had a prearranged signal set up. But that was long ago. Those devices wouldn’t be in use now, but nature hadn’t closed off the visual sighting slash in the trees yet.

Very slowly I drove past the opening. It would be movement that attracted the eye and at my pace nobody was going to notice. We passed the wreckage of the old chain-drive Mack truck, followed the ruts in the road very carefully and finally came out on the edge of the estate.

When I stopped again, Velda said, “Now what’s wrong?”

“You feel anything?” I asked her.

“Clue me in.”

“Slateman.”

“He didn’t know we were coming.”

“There’s a wood-burning cookstove in his kitchen. No smoke.”

“He’s not cooking.”

“Look, he doesn’t start a fire for every meal.”

“If a fire burns down, will it smoke?”

I shook my head. “Not necessarily, but chimney heat always leaves a disturbance in the air.”

Softly, Velda said, “Mike, New York people aren’t supposed to know these things.”

“New York people who were army personnel sneaking up on country places the enemy occupied did.”

We sat there for five minutes, then I put the gearshift into drive again and touched the gas pedal. Nothing happened. We got up to the door of Slateman’s house and stopped. Still, nothing happened. The only sounds were those of the wind whistling through the trees. Over to the west was a rumble of faraway thunder.